What’s in a Name?

In these days of increasing hysteria surrounding climate change, fanned by scientific fact and a not insignificant amount of hot air, it is maybe comforting to find that the peasant wisdom of folk lore continues to hold good.

If you had been under the (erroneous) impression that Spring begins on March 21st, think again – at least if you are living in Hungary. March 15th signals the onset of Spring, so long-awaited after the dark, dismal winter months. Allowing for slight hiccoughs (the sprinkling of soggy snow the morning of the 16th this year was an unpleasant surprise!) there is almost always a marked rise in temperatures around this date.

However, though it is difficult to outdo a revolution (March 15th), most weather forecasting is linked to Name Days in Hungary. I have not yet discovered another country where the saints days are celebrated in this way – all Hungarians have a name day, and it is often this – rather than a birthday, usually a family affair – which is celebrated by acquaintances and colleagues. All calendars list the names allotted to the days of the year, and some of the more prominent names (Mária, János etc.) have several. Many flower shops display name days in their windows, eager to remind you in case you had not consulted the calendar or listened to the radio that morning, (name days, including their origins, are given on the early morning radio programmes).

March 18th, 19th and 21st mark the days of the saints which bring us warmth in their sacks: Sándor, József, Benedek, zsákban hoznak be a meleget. A quick look at the web pages forecasting weather in the coming days confirm the rhyme. Similarly, though May can be gloriously warm, there remains the ever-present threat of the freezing saints, fagyos szentek: Pongrác, Szervác and Bonifác, on May 12th, 13th and 14th. If not actually freezing, these days are often marked by cooler and frequently rainy weather. If you are hoping for a white Christmas, the day to watch is Katalin nap on November 25th. As the saying goes, if this day is wet then Christmas will be frozen ( and vice-versa). Interestingly, June 8th, Medárd, is ascribed the same properties as St. Swithin’s (July 15th) in Britain – should it rain on this day then 40 more days of rain will follow, or conversely, if the day be fine, 40 days of drought will ensue. Many more folk weather predictions, particularly associated with farming and harvests,exist, though with a more urban lifestyle, are rapidly being forgotten.

Some years ago, when teaching at a university English department, in order to qualify for the small addition to my salary a pass would occasion, I was persuaded to sit for the advanced level state language exam in Hungarian. The examination date was set for May 16th, a warm day but with relentlessly heavy rain. On leaving the flat and locking the door, umbrella at hand, my elderly neighbour appeared, ready to go to market. “Awful weather!” I said. “Well,” she replied, “you know the saying: Májusi eső aranyat ér,” (May rain is worth gold). I did not know it, and found little consolation for my soggy departure in the fact that farmers would be happy.
On arriving at the exam centre I was presented with the first part of the test: a 50-question multiple-choice paper on grammar, vocabulary and miscellaneous other items. Question twenty-three had me chuckling silently to myself with what would have passed as exam-nerve hysteria; it said: Complete the saying: Májusi eső....

March 15th : A National Celebration

March 15th, 1848, was the day when Hungary’s poet, Sándor Petöfi, stood on the steps of the National Museum and recited the poem which was to mobilise Hungarians into an (unsuccessful) attempt to overthrow the yoke of Austrian oppression, and win the nation independence and freedom. The anniversary of this event was marked under communism, just as it is remembered today – albeit that present-day celebrations have witnessed a shift in emphasis.

Prior to 1989, March 15th was not a national holiday - it was only a school holiday. The heightened feelings of nationalism around this time of the year (as opposed to allegiance to the Communist cause), and the very obvious parallel situation of the occupation of the country by the Soviets (like the Austrians before them), resulted in the decision to keep the day low-key. Banning any commemoration at all would have been likely to escalate existing tensions, and so it was decided to allow schools to celebrate the fight against Hungary’s 19th century oppressors, but to keep the adult population at work.

In the days leading up to the anniversary, children practised the Petöfi poem, folk dancing, and re-enactments of the events of that historic day, which they performed at school. Rosettes (kokárda) of the Hungarian colours were sold on every street corner, and hardly a lapel was to be seen without one – even we felt the urge to join the celebration. Yet again, in order to ensure that feelings of patriotism did not run out of control and spill over into anti-Soviet sentiment, certain modifications of perception were instilled both into the history teaching at school, and in official circles: the Soviets had conquered all oppressors (like the Austrians) and to this extent March 15th symbolised a celebration of the more general victory over oppression – not just the Hungarians’ particular attempt in this direction.Thus, to further reinforce the message, both Hungarian flags and the red flag bearing the hammer and sickle were hung side by side in every public place. Every bridge, every office building, every block of flats had one of each flag, and it was a fineable offence not to hang them out on appointed days. A decision to hang only the Hungarian one would have been foolhardy in the extreme. The statue of Petöfi on the Danube embankment had hundreds of small flags planted in the earth at its base: both Hungarian and red flags. Understandably, the Hungarians felt that their very national holiday had been hijacked by a state that had not even existed in 1848.

One of the very first groups of students I taught in 1982, was from the Karl Marx University of Economics (now Corvinus Egyetem). When I asked how they would be spending their free day, a girl in the group said that her parents would be locking her in the family flat: in the previous year, she (along with fellow students) had gone at night and removed the small red flags from around the Petöfi statue, leaving just the Hungarian tricolours – something which carried a not insignificant risk: plain-clothes policeman could be observed at such sites, loitering conscpicuously, cameras in hand.

Following a brief respite in the early 90s, March 15th was once again ‘hijacked.’ In the lead-up to the 2002 election, Viktor Orbán declared that all those who supported him should wear the kokárda which was traditionally only worn in the days surounding the March anniversary. Suddenly, the wearing of the Hungarian colours professed allegiance to a political party and was no longer the neutral symbol of pride in one’s home country; for those who were not Orbán supporters it became a no-win situation: they either abandoned their patriotism and desire to commemorate 1848, or by wearing their kokárda, declared their tantamount support for the FIDESZ party. What had always been a unifying celebration, had, overnight, become highly divisive.

Today, the recitation of the Petöfi poem on the steps of the National Musueum and the associated official celebrations, have become a backdrop to demonstrations – peaceful and otherwise – by a variety of political parties. Once again, March 15th has become politicised – no longer by the communists, but now by the self-professed exponents of democracy: the result, sadly, is an unsavoury exploitation of this national holiday.

Greasy Palms

Corruption, like crime in general, exists on some level in every society. In certain geographical areas it is endemic: developing countries where basic necessities are unavailable and where the majority live in abject poverty.

Hungary is no exception. Whilst still communist, bribery was not only accepted but expected. It caused neither embarrassment nor sleepless nights – it was frequently the only way to circumvent absurd regulations that seemed to serve no other purpose than to provide petty bureaucrats with an opportunity to ‘earn’ some extra cash. Everyone was familiar with the going rates for anything from being caught by the police for speeding to the ‘fee’ expected from the obstetrician for the delivery of a baby, or from being supplied with the name of someone who could help you get a telephone to ‘helping’ your child get a place at university. Though resented to an undeniable extent, these bribes – more often referred to as ‘tips’ – were a part of everyday life. State wages were low, and people sought any method to supplement their incomes.

State-owned shops had little on offer, but even some of the available stock was hidden away in back store-rooms. Thus, if you were unable to find shoes in your size, and the assistant hinted that a suitable pair might be in stock, using the well-worn ‘code’ of I would be very grateful if you would have a look, indicated that your gratitude would subsequently manifest itself in a few hundred extra forints. The police were infamous: no proof was available (nor indeed necessary) to accuse any driver of an array of misdemeanours, each with its attached rate. Refusal to offer a tip was much more of an inconvenience than to offer a few banknotes and put it down to bad luck. A student of mine worked to pay for his studies in a gaming hall: one-armed bandits in a small, dark room in the eighth district. A policeman was a regular: he would lose 20,000 forints in a short session, and then replacing his cap, stand on the corner of the busy road, flag down some ‘speeding’ motorists and return with his pockets replenished. With a (very) few notable exceptions, everyone expected to have to give such tips, and few refused when offered: there was almost nothing that could not be ‘arranged’ for a fee, and if one person refused to accept the bribe, there would be half a dozen more waiting for such an opportunity.
Meanwhile, veritable armies of men and women claimed they were unable to work for health reasons, all claiming disability allowance while pursuing lucrative activities, unchecked, for decades.

There was a belief, a hope, that with the collapse of the communist system, these ingrained habits would fade – indeed, that with higher wages they would become an anachronistic curiosity, at least on this everyday level. Yet the truth is that little has changed. In 2000, Britain’s The Independent published an article entitled: Bribe menu shows Hungary has best police force money can buy”! Whilst public intolerance of bribery is promulgated in official circles, it continues unabated. Whether the small-time acceptance (expectance) of 25,000 forints to see you through your driving test, or the odd million for planning permission in green-belt zones, the situation remains, in essence, unaltered. According to Transparency International, Hungary fell eight positions from last year to 47th on Transparency International's 2008 Corruption Perceptions Index. In fact, Hungary has now slipped lower than both the Czech Republic and Slovenia – countries which twenty years ago lagged far behind Hungary in terms of development, but which have now surpassed the Hungarians. Is the correlation between their economic success and decreasing corruption pure coincidence, one wonders?

In view of April’s forthcoming election, the perceived lack of transparency in Hungary's party and campaign financing begs the question as to what has been achieved in the twenty years since The Change. More worrying is the conclusion: If no effective action is taken against corruption, Hungary may easily slide down the ladder in the next few years.
We will all just have to wait and see.

Recycling – Communist Style

It would no doubt elicit raised eyebrows and scepticism were it to be suggested that the communist years witnessed even a passing nod at ‘green’ policies or practices. The two-stroke cars, buses and lorries belched noxious clouds of sooty fumes that choked the city, blackening the façades of architectural treasures, and necessitating frequent hair and curtain washing. During weeks spent in the countryside I noticed that the water in which I washed my hair remained transparent: in Budapest it was black, while factories billowed varicoloured gases over the concrete tower blocks.

Yet – albeit it for reasons of shortage or economic necessity – recycling was at a more advanced (or more retarded) stage than that back in Britain. Little was thrown away: everything could be mended for a few forints. In Blaha Lujza tér, the Corvin Áruház ( still grimly hanging on to life, but surely to be demolished soon, as the building nextdoor already has been) boasted a stocking-mending service. A middle-aged woman sat on the first floor at a small table, peering closely at one of the multitude of pairs of laddered tights their owners had left with her, and which they would soon come and collect, perfectly repaired.
Close to Gerlóczy utca was an umbrella repair shop. Following an age when an umbrella was not a throw-away item, but whose polished wooden handle and strong spokes were covered with good quality material, it was not uncommon to have them re-covered at a modest cost. Every kind of electrical appliance which in more affluent countries would be thrown away and replaced, could be repaired. And where the requisite spare part was unavailable – either because it simply could not be procured, or because the gadget itself was from abroad – repairmen would simply adapt an existing part, or fashion the necessary component from whatever they had in their workshops.

Meanwhile, a deposit was payable on all glass containers from fruit juice (no Tetrapak!) and wine bottles to jam jars, bottled fruit bottles and even medicine bottles. There was little by way of frozen food, thus vast quantities of fruit and vegetables were bottled, increasing the weight of the average shopping bag at least threefold. Cough mixture and antibiotics all came in small glass bottles – all with a deposit to pay, and all returnable. Of course, this also meant carrying these heavy glass containers back from whence they had come – and many was the occasion when the supermarket hatch for taking returns was closed, or they had no more crates to store the bottles, or today was a ‘beer’ day and not a ‘wine’ day, or…..in which eventuality one had to return home again with the empties as one’s shopping bags were already full!

But maybe the most extraordinary recycling is witnessed still today in Budapest streets when it is time for lomtalanitás. It is then that the city’s streets fill with every imaginable and unidentifiable kind of bric-a-brac: untidy, sprawling heaps of tangled wires and splintered furniture, headless dolls and handle-less saucepans; singed mattresses and collapsed ironing-boards, rusted heaters and torn school textbooks. This is the annual opportunity for Budapest residents to clear out dusty cellars of those items the weekly refuse collectors cannot take. The dates are posted in advance, giving serious ’collectors’ warning of the impending rota around the city’s districts.

After our move in 1990, we were forced to part with our first automatic washing machine, a Russian Vjatka. Though only three years old, and with the motor working perfectly, the plastic door had split and was leaking ever-increasing quantities of soapy water. In spite of all attempts, it could not be effectively repaired, and with the change of regime, the factory had ceased to function and spare parts were unavailable. Thus, we manhandled the solidly-made machine onto the street corner in readiness for the lomtalanitás. Before we had even manoeuvered it into position, a gypsy family appeared and sat the youngest of their brood of children on top. The child seemed undaunted by his responsibility of preventing any other person from laying claim to the Vjatka, and untroubled by the fact that his family then quickly disappeared around the corner in search of other treasures.
It was several hours later and growing dusk when they finally returned with a small handcart – possibly procured from a neighbouring pile – and then, placing both child and washing machine ontop, they made for home.

Say it with Flowers

St.Valentine’s Day has been celebrated in Britain for centuries. February 14th is associated with romantic love, and since the late 18th century cards have been sent – often anonymously - by those unable to express their love and admiration personally to the object of their desires. In the 19th century cards were made with ribbon and lace, tiny mirrors, feathers and even hair, with verses declaring true love and often ending with the question, Will you marry me or no?
Whether anonymous or not, the sending of Valentine’s cards in Britain is still limited to lovers – the English language lacks any differentiation between the love of a friend or family member, and that reserved for those with whom we are ‘in love.’ In Hungarian there is no such ambiguity, szeretet expressing the former, szerelem the latter.

Before 1989, February 14th in Hungary was the name day for those called Bálint (in other words, Valentin), but the whole concept of Valentine’s Day as an occasion for sending cards, buying flowers or other gifts was quite unknown. However, as we stumbled into a post-communist world, increasingly bombarded with advertising and coming evermore under the influence of the media, I noticed the first flower shop window sporting red hearts and the words: Február 14 - Valentin Nap. Also having noticed this same phenomenon, my cleaner asked if I had any inklings as to what Valentin nap might be. Clearly, it was an attempt to boost flower sales in the dreary cold and wintry gloom in the ‘dead’ period between Christmas and International Women’s Day at the beginning of March.
Lacking all knowledge of the origins of this custom, and led firstly by florists, Valentin Nap quickly became an occasion for giving flowers and sending cards to everyone you ‘love’ (szeretet) – obviously opening a far wider market than just those in love (szerelem).

The custom of giving flowers in Hungary is deeply embedded: no self-respecting guest would appear for lunch or dinner without at least a modest bouquet of flowers or a beautifully wrapped plant. Flowers are given on every imaginable occasion, to both men and women, and even to children (more especially girls) for birthdays and name days.
Flowers can be bought on every street corner in premises varying from the most elegant and sophisticated florist’s to market stalls where the blooms stand in plastic buckets. Those working in flower shops take genuine pride in their ability to produce stunning arrangements, and to fashion bows and wrapping with true dexterity while one watches. Having discovered a particular favourite shop, I frequently leave the choice of flowers and complementary greenery to the florist: I simply state for whom the bouquet is intended (daughter’s birthday, 85-year-old friend’s name-day – male – and so on), and an approximate price, sure that the completed creation will perfectly befit the occasion.

Yet, in spite of all admiration for their adroit and creative work, I find it difficult to forgive the annual exploitation of the beautiful old St. Valentine’s Day tradition.

Communications / II

It took more than a year to organise the permits to come and live in Hungary in 1982. The preparations also entailed a visit to the Hungarian Embassy in London where we were given a talk about what we could not take with us when we left: the list included all forms of pornography or a photocopier (strictly banned and not to be found anywhere in the country) – furthermore, we were told that if we brought a typewriter, we would have to provide a sample page of typing from which our machine could, if necessary, be identified.

Communications of every kind were severely curtailed in Hungary at that time. The rarity of telephone ownership and their technical shortcomings were further complicated by the fact that everyone was well aware that calls could be – and were – monitored. Certain topics were never alluded to on the telephone, but only in personal meetings. Letters could be opened – the clearest indication to us that ours were being read was that weeks passed when we did not receive a single communication from home, following which we would find half a dozen envelopes in our post box, bearing postmarks as much as three weeks apart; some letters never arrived. That parcels were always opened was not even secret – wrapping paper was torn, contents arrived damaged or even missing, and a fee was payable for the ‘privilege’.

Meanwhile, the media was, inevitably, strictly censored – not that our Hungarian was halfway to tackling the complexities of a broadsheet in the language – no tabloid press existed. A friend consoled us when we expressed some frustration at our inability to read the papers with the words, “In England people read the press to know what to believe; here we read the papers to know what not to believe!”

Watching television left us none the wiser. There were no broadcasts on Mondays, the official explanation being either that people should use their time for more uplifting pursuits, the more plausible one, that it was an energy-saving measure. The Evening Exercises programme (Esti Torna) was enthusiastically promoted – as were all forms of sport and keep fit – and many people made sufficient space in their overcrowded concrete flats to participate in the gymnastics every evening. Meanwhile, the news was dominated by pictures of combine harvesters bringing in the wheat, and smiling factory workers showing off the products that would more than fulfil targets in the Five Year Plan.
Access to foreign media proved equally limited. Foreign newspapers were occasionally available in dollar shops, though they were expensive and usually out of date. I experimented once with newspaper booths, but was only offered the Daily Star, the organ of the British Communist Party – I had heard of this, but never seen it. The only reliable source was the British Embassy library where we would go when we had time, but where papers were also days old. Hungarians who were not diplomats could not enter dollar shops, and most were wary of entering the embassy since it was an open secret that such visits were monitored by the porter at the entrance to whom you had to show your ID card.

In the obvious absence of the internet, the situation resulted in almost total ignorance of what was, in reality, happening in the world beyond Hungary’s borders. Interestingly, the Hungarian use of the word ‘outside’ (kint) to mean outside the country, in other words, abroad, persists to this day, but then had the added overtone of ‘on the other side.’

We were fortunate enough to be able to locate the BBC World Service on an old Russian radio we found in our first flat. It was somewhat of a surprise that it had not been jammed, but so few Hungarians knew English that possibly it was not deemed a threat. It was over its crackly reception that we heard that Chernobyl had exploded in 1986, while Hungarians went about their daily business in blissful ignorance.
None of our few English compatriots had a telephone, so we were unable to pass the news on to them – a telegram could have been a risky strategy. Thus it was that we sat with our musician friend Laurence that evening, ruminating on the severity of the fallout, the extent to which Hungary could have been affected, and the likelihood of our being subjected to radiation. His solution to the absence of information on the subject from local sources was as practical as it was simple: Let’s put out the lights and see if we glow in the dark! he suggested. Thankfully, we did not.

Communications / I

Possibly the comment most frequently made when talking about the nigh twenty-eight years I have spent in Hungary is, You must have seen a lot of changes in that time! It would obviously be impossible to enumerate the differences, but I have mused upon what single factor has, in fact, changed most dramatically, and it would undoubtedly have to be that of communication. This aspect of life has altered everywhere since the advent of the mobile telephone and the internet, but here in Hungary these dramatic developments, occurring within a much eclipsed time span, have completely transformed society.

Before 1989, approximately one tenth of people in Budapest had a telephone, whilst in villages the doctor was likely to be the only such person – a single public kiosk having to suffice for the remaining inhabitants. To this must be added the fact that phones were notoriously unreliable: a deafening silence often replaced the comforting purr of a working line; numbers remained engaged for days at a time; rain frequently rendered phone lines unusable, or resulted in crossed lines (I succeeded in speaking to someone in Pakistan when trying to reach a friend in Buda!), or so many callers were apparently sharing the same line, each demanding the others hang up, that it was impossible to have a coherent conversation.
And this was in the happy event that you had your own apparatus at home - even a party-line was heaven-sent! (Before coming to Hungary this term was something I had only come across in black and white Ealing Studio films my parents watched!)

Street phones came in two varieties, red and yellow. Yellow appliances were for domestic calls at 2 forints a time; their red counterparts were for calls abroad. Here, the range of possibilities preventing the successful procedure of ringing someone, was vastly increased. Though vandalism did not at that time exist per se, frustrations with the shortcomings of phones were often turned into destructive revenge on the receivers themselves which hung limply, their disembowelled wires hanging from cracked ear pieces. Then came the list of technical problems: the phone was dead, there was no line; it was impossible to insert one’s 2-forint coin in the slot; the coin kept dropping through; the coin was retained but the buzzing line continued; you dialled, but even your most frantic shouts could not be heard…

In these circumstances it was usually quicker (and considerably less wearing on one’s nerves) to visit the person you wished to talk to. This resulted in impromptu gatherings in people’s homes all over the city on any night of the week. The only way of talking to someone who did not have a telephone, was to visit them. This was as accepted as it was unexceptional – there was quite simply no alternative. The result was that one’s friendships and relationships were close and extensive, as one inevitably met the children, parents, families and friends of existing friends and colleagues. This provided new contacts and a growing network of friends: one could almost say it was a living counterpart to the virtual world represented by today’s Facebook.

The red and yellow shiny plastic apparatuses are long gone, having been replaced with the shocking pink T-com models. But almost as quickly as these were installed, and colourful phone cards sold in place of using coins, so mobile phones rendered public phone boxes passé in their turn. (I cannot remember when I last observed someone using a public telephone.) In fact, many Hungarians went from having no phone at all to having a mobile, leaving out the stage of an (unreliable) mainline telephone altogether.

Today, the brave new world of emails and text messages, Facebook and twittering, have obviated a trek though wind and rain to the other side of town to see a friend, bottle of wine in hand, possibly to meet an unknown group of people, play with a friend’s children and share in a very real evening of food and un-virtual chat. Regret at its passing may be regarded as nostalgia pure and simple; but in the era that sought to make communication as difficult as possible, it thrived as it has not done since. Yet another paradox.